Bridge Street


Two modern hot water bottles shown with their ...

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Let me tell you about our relationship.
Let me tell you how we have sex in the bathroom, while my step-father is trying to use it.
Let me tell you how we eat our fantasies like skittles, and consequently abuse it.
Let me tell you how many nights she cried under her sheets, and never told me.
Let me tell you how we walked home on drugs, with me throwing water bottles at churches so unholy.
Let me tell you many times we’ve broken up, and gotten back together.
Let me tell you how many times I said “I love you” and heard “whatever”.
Let me tell you how many times we got pregnant, an almost never kept it.
Let me tell you how times I’ve constantly lied, like that last bit.
Let me tell you how many train ticket receipts are on our bedroom floors.
Let me tell you how many times we’ve cheated on each other like whores.
Let me tell you how many text messages were hidden, because we’re lurkers.
Let me tell you how we rolled cigars like fuckin’ factory workers.
Let me tell you how many times we’ve jumped turnstiles, and got high later that night.
Let me tell you how many times we woke up, dazed and confused….after that night.

Or.
I could tell you how many times we woke up, and kissed each other, with morning breath unaffected.
Or.
How we kissed for minutes on end, until our faces moved in sync perfected.

Disasters fade like black pigment to grey, besides…….who said love was perfect anyway.

But, anyway…..

-Richí

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About Oil Underneath

I drink glasses of cold water.
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